8
The Complaint.
Night I.
Thought, busy Thought! too busy for my Peace!
Thro' the dark Postern of Time long elaps'd,
Led softly, by the Stilness of the Night,
Led, like a Murderer, (and such it proves!)
Strays (wretched Rover!) o'er the pleasing Past;
In quest of Wretchedness perversely strays;
And finds all desart now; and meets the Ghosts
Of my departed Joys; a num'rous Train!
I rue the Riches of my former Fate;
Sweet Comfort's blasted Clusters I lament;
I tremble at the Blessings once so dear;
And ev'ry Pleasure pains me to the Heart.
Yet why complain? or why complain for One?
Hangs out the Sun his Lustre but for me,
The single Man? Are Angels all beside?
I mourn for Millions: 'Tis the common Lot;
In this Shape, or in that, has Fate entail'd
The Mother's Throes on all of Woman born,
Not more the Children, than sure Heirs of Pain.
War, Famine, Pest, Volcano, Storm, and Fire,
Intestine Broils, Oppression, with her Heart
Wrapt up in triple Brass, besiege Mankind.
God's Image disinherited of Day,
Here, plung'd in Mines, forgets a Sun was made.
There, Beings deathless as their haughty Lord,
Are hammer'd to the galling Oar for Life;
And plow the Winter's Wave, and reap Despair.
Some, for hard Masters, broken under Arms,
In Battle lopt away, with half their Limbs,
Beg bitter Bread thro' Realms their Valour sav'd,
If so the Tyrant, or his Minion, doom.
Want, and incurable Disease, (fell Pair!)
On hopeless Multitudes remorseless seize
At once; and make a Refuge of the Grave.
How groaning Hospitals eject their Dead!
Thro' the dark Postern of Time long elaps'd,
Led softly, by the Stilness of the Night,
Led, like a Murderer, (and such it proves!)
Strays (wretched Rover!) o'er the pleasing Past;
In quest of Wretchedness perversely strays;
And finds all desart now; and meets the Ghosts
Of my departed Joys; a num'rous Train!
I rue the Riches of my former Fate;
Sweet Comfort's blasted Clusters I lament;
I tremble at the Blessings once so dear;
And ev'ry Pleasure pains me to the Heart.
Yet why complain? or why complain for One?
Hangs out the Sun his Lustre but for me,
The single Man? Are Angels all beside?
I mourn for Millions: 'Tis the common Lot;
In this Shape, or in that, has Fate entail'd
The Mother's Throes on all of Woman born,
Not more the Children, than sure Heirs of Pain.
War, Famine, Pest, Volcano, Storm, and Fire,
Intestine Broils, Oppression, with her Heart
Wrapt up in triple Brass, besiege Mankind.
God's Image disinherited of Day,
Here, plung'd in Mines, forgets a Sun was made.
There, Beings deathless as their haughty Lord,
Are hammer'd to the galling Oar for Life;
And plow the Winter's Wave, and reap Despair.
Some, for hard Masters, broken under Arms,
In Battle lopt away, with half their Limbs,
Beg bitter Bread thro' Realms their Valour sav'd,
If so the Tyrant, or his Minion, doom.
Want, and incurable Disease, (fell Pair!)
On hopeless Multitudes remorseless seize
At once; and make a Refuge of the Grave.
How groaning Hospitals eject their Dead!
What
